The Clashing Waves of War and Mischief
by WebsofEris
Summary: Sif has worked twice as hard to be seen as the equal of her male shipmates. But she's never felt the need to join in when they take pleasure spoils from the towns and ports that the crew raids. Until she captures a tall, gorgeous noble-man. And what she wouldn't give to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face.
1. Chapter 1

She caught a glimpse of him running down the long, spiraling stairs away from the room that held several of her shipmates a few seconds before she smelled the familiar scent of burning wood and saw smoke beginning to escape the room. She had just enough time to shout a warning down to Fandral and Volstagg, her blonde shipmate instantly taking off to chase down the fleeing man before she vaulted over the railing to smoothly land on her feet upon the ground floor.

She spared just a few moments of thought for the valuable loot being consumed in flames before she too was off after the man.

* * *

The fire had been no unfortunate accident of course. She realized that soon after she had managed to chase the boy – not a man, not yet, despite his height, judging by his baby face – who had ran from the manor. He had managed to slip away from Fandral's sight, weaving around the houses, through the narrow alleyways and had given them the slip for a good twenty minutes. Sif was winded by the time she managed to catch up to him, a stitch in her side the only evidence of the effort she had needed to put into containing him.

He was no mere servant; his clothes, even stained with earth and blood from the earth she had tackled him down onto, were made of the highest quality fabrics. Fabrics softer and richer than she had ever worn.

Undoubtedly that made him related to the governor, his son perhaps, and this fact stayed her sword arm from slitting his long, pale throat. There was value in keeping him alive – though her instincts were screaming out to avenge her fallen shipmates.

The captain could, and would, use him as a bargaining chip to gain all they could from the governor. It would not be the first time they had acquired some noble born get for booty of more value.

That alone should have been the only reason to stay her hand.

It also should have been the first to occur to her. She was not Fandral, her blonde cad of a shipmate who constantly dragged along various young women from their raids that had caught his eye. As a woman on a pirate ship, the only woman a member of the crew at least, she made damn sure that all of her shipmates knew she was their equal. She would gladly send any man down to Davy Jones' locker if they undermined her.

Many of the men learned that lesson the hard way, with iron and blood rather than words. Words were not for her – a sharp sword or a dagger worked quicker and left more of an impression.

Her body was her own – she had fought tooth and nail, broken herself in half working her way up – to be able to say that. She would not bow down to the will of any man, she would not be his submissive servant, and she would never make a home for herself in a woman's place. No man would ever have her.

This was what had gained her Captain Thor's admiration, her strength as a fighter and of her convictions. The smoothness with which she killed, the ruthlessness with which she pillaged and plundered. Her unwavering loyalty. The Thunder was no easy man to impress but she had established herself a place as first mate on the ship, _Mjolnir_, feared throughout the seven seas.

She did not care to notice pretty men – took no pleasure spoils as her share – so her reaction was disconcerting to say the least. The eyes that flared up at her were like green fire, the mouth that spit curses at her was thin and razor like. He was all sharp lines and edges, pale skin and a lithe, tall body. He reminded her of a sword; a quicksilver blade in the night. Apt appearance for a boy who had thwarted her captain's ambitions – whatever treasure he had sought in the governor's house was ash now. How quickly he had to have snuck through the manor to set that fire in a room that had been filled with so many of her shipmates. Men who had not been known for their dull senses.

He struggled valiantly but he was no fighter. She drew up her knee in between the v of his legs in a subtle threat, just enough pressure to warn. His arms she managed to pin above his head but she needed to place her entire body weight down to stop the flailing of his limbs. Twigs and leaves snagged themselves in his black hair as he futilely tried to buck her off him – his genitals pushing up into her knee and causing heat to come upon her.

"I would suggest you cease struggling boy or else I shall slit your pretty throat," she growled at him, voice throaty and winded.

He laughed - a dark bitter sound.

"Try it. As you reach for your sword you shall have to release your hold. Let us see if you can catch me again."

Within seconds she managed to prove him wrong, placing pressure on his groin from where her knee was placed distracting him as she let go of his wrists with one of her hands, holding them in her other, and slipping free her dagger from its place in her leather belt. She placed it at his throat, just below his adam's apple and traced the movements of it as he swallowed from the sudden presence of the blade. His eyes shined with nervous energy but his face was a smooth mask – the contours shaped into casual arrogance, his thin mouth smirking as if he felt no fear at all. She was in no small way both repulsed and drawn to his bravado.

"You know, you destroyed something that was my captain's with your little arson escapade," she whispered, bending down so that the sound of her voice resonated right into his ear. She noticed that it was well shaped; the lobe was thick and fleshy, perfect for teeth. A small but noticeable shiver ran through his body. The reaction triggered a flash of heat in her stomach.

"So sure of that? If I did than the deed is done – killing me prevents nothing. I would say you might be worse off for the deed," he countered. She noticed that his accent was not quite the stuffy inflection of many Englishman – there was a hint of something else buried in it – Dutch perhaps or something vaguely German?

No matter. She intended to find out later.

She mimicked the smirk on his face but no false bravery was shining in her eyes, "I shall not kill you boy. No, you are going to become a much… _honored_ guest on my captain's ship now."

He began to struggle anew.

* * *

She had to hand it to him; he had been a challenge to clap the irons onto, even with Fandral holding onto his upper arms and Volstagg threateningly pointing his gun at the brunette's face. Her shipmates had caught up to her right as he had almost managed to escape her grip – uncaring that her dagger had nicked at his throat or the blood that had started to drip from the shallow cut.

Volstagg currently had a hold of the chains connecting the iron manacles around his wrists pulling him forwarding, ignoring his cursing and spitting. It was not in English but she could deduce the nature of the words easily enough from the icy glares that he would shoot back to her as they made their way towards Mjlonir_. _Every time she felt him glance back at her she couldn't help but stroke the dagger she still held, stained with bits of his blood, the suggestion clear.

"Want to tell me why we're bothering taking the lad to the ship – why not just gut him now and leave him there. The captain will do it soon enough anyway," Fandral pondered out loud, giving her a pointed look.

"He has his uses," she answered him. Many uses – but should she? She wanted too. The feel of his body underneath hers had caused sensations she had not let herself feel in ages. She wanted that body submissive and pliant underneath her once more; long, pale limbs spread across crimson sheets in her cabin, wrists tied with silk to the headboard, eyes like green fire incensed and glaring. She wanted to hear his unwitting gasps, wanted to wring pleasured moans from his throat.

Perhaps this made her more of a man. Her shipmates engaged in this sort of behavior all the time.

"Does he? What kind of uses my dear lady," Fandral told her, grinning.

"The usual kind Fandral. He's well-born, probably the governor's son. The captain might still get something from the venture," she replied though they both knew her own uses for the brunette were along more carnal lines. She would not admit it to him though.

"Luck would have it that such a _pretty_ consolation prize would fall into our laps than."

"I would not underestimate him. He managed to get past all our men to set that fire – he will need to be watched," she informed him. She was right of course – even if she had not intended his keeper to be herself the boy was too quiet, quick and cunning to be left unguarded.

"Is that what you will tell our dear captain than," he teased.

"I intend only to suggest it to the captain," she said stiffly. Thor would heed her. He always did. She had gotten them out of many sticky situations with her cautious warnings about the nature of their raids or their hostages. She could tell which ones were meek and unresisting, would give them no trouble. She could tell which ones were useless and best left to the sharks. She could tell which ones needed to be watched, which ones would give them the most advantage to board and feed upon their vessel.

She saw Volstagg happily hand the boy off to Hogun when they finally reached the docks where Mjlonir was floating, patiently waiting for her captain and crew to arrive home. Several pretty women were chained together on the deck and Hogun pulled her boy over to them, hooking his chains to the women's and pushing him to kneel down. He was reluctant to do so and earned himself a slap in the face from her stoic shipmate.

She wondered if he bruised prettily.

"Intend to suggest what to me," a deep, annoyed voice inquired from behind her. The look on his face was thunderous – he clearly had already been informed of the fire and the loss of whatever he had intended to search for there.

Fandral quietly walked away leaving her to deal with their captain's ire.

She had always deeply admired her captain's physique. He was tall and strongly muscled, his arms were thick, his hair was golden and his beard was always well trimmed for a man who lived at sea. His skin was tanned from the sun, handsome and charismatic. His appearance was deceptive – he drew people to him like the sun only to cast them into shadow.

She could picture the wildcat next to him, light and dark – so different from one another. Strange that she could feel such love and admiration for her captain but he drew out none of these urges from her.

"I have brought a noble-born boy on board. He can be no older than eighteen. I intended to suggest we make use of him – gain some ransom from this venture," she answered.

Thor shot her a suspicious look, eyeing the gaggle of captives already on board the ship. He would not easily be able to pick the boy out; his head was down, long hair obscuring his flat, male chest and face.

"So sure of his usefulness," he grumbled. His blue eyes were red-rimmed from the smoke in the air around them.

She nodded, confident. The captain sighed, his face losing none of its anger but she could see the calculating gleam beginning in his eyes. He would always be up for more money when they could acquire it.

"He will have to be watched," she told him, plowing on without stopping to think. If she thought she was lost.

"I volunteer to be his keeper."

Her captain's eyebrows raised a bit, the only visible evidence of his surprise. She had never volunteered to be anyone's keeper before; the men of the crew often taking that job regardless of whether the captive was woman or man.

She schooled her features, determined to show none of her true intentions upon them.

"Must be special," Thor mused. "Very well, you may watch him. Now tell me…whose son is he that we can ransom him too?"

She had waited to reveal this knowing that Thor would never go back on his word to her. His anger would be great but his gratefulness to her loyalty and his compassion for her would temper it. By evading the boy's identity till now she had stopped him from being able to harm the boy; to strip the skin from his back and make an example of him as he had done too others who had defied him.

"I believe him to be Governor Laufey's son – he set the fire in the house," she admitted. Her captain stared oddly at her and then looked towards the ship again, eyeing all the captives.

Strangely his voice was contemplative when he asked her if she was sure. She replied that she was and he nodded. He then called to all his remaining men informing them that they would ship off within the hour, walking up to the ship and towards the captives. She followed him, motioning to Hogun that he should place the boy captive in her chamber before they embarked. Hogun nodded. She turned away from him to watch her captain.

Thor knelt beside her captive, more distinct to make out as the only male once he was able to see them closer. He drew the boy's chin harshly into his hand, studying his face. The boy was silent, the beginnings of a yellowing bruise shadowing his pale temple, black hair tangled and sweaty.

He paid her no attention though she was standing behind her captain. His eyes were filled with hatred as Thor forced him to stay still. Thor's other hand came up to push his hair back, rubbing softly at the bruise on his temple.

Thor smiled, "Good work Sif."

She was filled with warmth at the pride in his voice as she was every time praise was directed towards her. Proof that she was the equal of any man here.

The boy spat out one harsh curse in that strange language, jerking his chin from Thor's hold. Oddly, Thor's smile only grew. He ruffled the dark hair before he got up to head towards the Captain's cabin.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes:

It has been so long! I had originally planned to have this story be really short and done by now. It was suppose to be a quick, fun little ficlet to do. But school got hectic and so writing was put on hold and I feel a bit guilty so I wrote a new chapter. Its going to make the fic a bit longer most likely and its unbeted. So if anyone catches any mistakes in grammar/spelling please point them out to me! I would really appreciate it.

Anyway, hopefully I'll be able to focus on writing more of this fic and my other fic once finals are done. As it is, here is a quick and hopefully not completely disappointing and terrible chapter.

* * *

The boy had managed to pick the lock on his shackles by the time she entered her cabin that night. He was standing in a corner by the far wall, leaned up against the wood, probably for some semblance of balance against the rocking motion of the ship upon the waves. His face had a pale cast to it and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead – likely a sign of sea sickness. It had been many years since Sif had gained her sea legs but she remembered the first experiences with the motions of the boat and the reactions it caused to the body. Despite everything he managed to sneer at her as she came through the door; silent and sullen.

She had a viper locked in her cabin.

Sif didn't bother to wonder if he had stashed any of the knives she had in her cabin somewhere about his person. Likely he had. Doubtlessly he could slit her throat in her sleep but where would that leave him? Surrounded by enemies on the boat and water outside. They had been sailing a good few hours by now. The sun had set long before and the only light outside was the moon, hidden behind clouds, peaking slivers on the ocean's surface.

The boy would have an interesting journey back to land if he managed to escape with his life.

He knew this. He was too smart to try such a feeble attempt at gaining freedom. He would wait. Sif was stubborn and vigilant. She had no doubt she could outlast his patience but she would have to keep a close eye on him.

For now she was too exhausted to contemplate much else about any potential plans he might have thought up whilst left alone in her cabin. Her muscles were sore and aching from the day's excursions – the failed mission and hauling in what loot they had kept, chasing her new guest through the streets – and she wanted to welcome the sweet respite of sleep to recover.

She walked over to the washing bowl she kept placed on the dresser she had managed to cram into her small cabin. It had a short guard rail of wood that kept the contents on its surface from being tossed onto the floor during shallow storms. The water from the bowl had been splashed around some, small droplets were scattered around the side of the bowl and the wood beneath it. There were soap bubbles floating on the surface and a slight hint of red tinted liquid at the bottom of the basin; her washing cloth was scrunched up and damp from being wrung out. She glanced over at the boy who was still silent and stationary in the corner. He glared back at her – as if he was _daring_ her to protest.

He had managed to wash the blood from his face as best he could but some had dried where it had scabbed over on his top lip from a cut slipping its way through pink flesh. There was a couple of darkening bruises on his right cheek and left temple but the dirt from when she had tackled him had been wiped from his skin and hair. The black strands were curling at the ends as they dried.

The shackles had been tossed on her bed along with his overcoat leaving him in a thin, cotton shirt that was unbuttoned to his waist and tight leather breeches. Sif eyed the smooth, unblemished skin where his shirt peaked upon; she could feel a phantom sensation of salty flesh underneath her tongue, tracing a path downward.

Her own skin felt sticky with sweat and dirt; her hair plastered to her scalp and forehead. She picked up her washcloth and dipped it in the soapy water. It felt warm as she rubbed it in soothing circles over her face and neck, starving off the chill in the room. She wondered how he had managed to warm the typically lukewarm water up.

"What is your name boy," she asked, not even glancing at him. Some of the water slipped across her lips – there was a faint tang of blood and soap. She did not shutter because the taste of blood was not new to her. It was almost pleasant – a sign of humanity underneath that exterior.

There was some shuffling behind her as he moved; she imagined him sullenly crossing his arms over his chest and pouting. The fantasy brought a smirk to her lips.

"Does it matter?"

"You're going to be here a while," she told him, voice calm. She would not betray how much she wanted to know his name. She refused to sound weak and needy and she would never stoop to beg for it. He was her captive and she held the power in this room.

She dropped the wash cloth back in the basin after ruffling it through her hair to banish away the grime. She turned around and was only slightly disappointed that he was not sullenly pouting but still as a marble statue.

"I can keep calling you boy. I can call you slave, or captive, or any number of words that might amuse me. You may suffer the humiliation of that in front of the men on this ship if you so desire, for I assure you, it would be humiliating. Or you can be spared that and tell me your name. Either way, it is all the same to me. I will address you in some manner while you are here and you are free to choose the nature of that," she told him, idly toweling the loose strands of her hair dry with the towel she kept wrapped around a bedpost.

The men would take great pleasure in her ordering the pretty male about like an unruly child that needed to be turned over his mother's knee. There was a shade of dark pleasure at the notion – how often had she been turned over her own mother's knee as a young girl, disobedient and unruly. How she had longed to escape; to rebel. To triumph over their expectations of her.

"Loki," he whispered, relenting to her question grudgingly.

_Loki_, she thought, turning the name over in her mind. Not an English name – foreign and almost chaotic in the way the two syllables smashed together to form the sound.

"Well than _Loki_," she started saying, dropping the towel back onto the bedpost and picking up the shackles from the bed. She ran her thumb over the smooth, cold metal. His eyes traced his movements.

"We can have it out again," she suggested, voice light and cheerful, no hint of any exhaustion, "You shall lose and end up washing more blood off your face. Or you can lay down on the bed with me with no protest and rest."

She dangled the shackles in her hand making sure it was clear he would not be laying down with his hands free no matter which option he choose. Stupid it might be for him to try to escape but there was always the possibility. She did not reach so high in the ranks by acting the trusting fool.

He chuckled darkly, "I thought only men made such use of their captives."

Though her belly tightened at the thought and her mind was angered at the slight in his words she kept the smirk on her face. In mere seconds she had crossed the small room to stand in front of him. She stood so close to him she could feel his breath on her face. Her thumb – the one that had been caressing metal cuffs – reached up to caress the bruise on his cheekbone. His skin was soft, softer than hers or any woman's she had ever felt.

She pressed her thumb hard into the bruised skin; he flinched.

"Oh, they do," she confirmed in a voice that was layered with promise, "but not tonight."

The candlelight from the lantern nailed to the wall next to his head flickered across his features. For a moment the green of his eyes seemed to change and reflect the red glow from the flames.

She knew that Loki was contemplating his options as they stood there, close enough to kiss, to embrace. A few moments later he smoothly walked around her. She turned to keep her eye on him as he moved towards the dresser. His hands reached into his belt and retrieved one of her knives, dropping it on her dresser.

Then, circling around to face her, slowly, he began to unbutton the rest of his cotton shirt. Inches of pale, hairless skin was revealed. Sif swallowed. She stared, mesmerized as his stomach muscles – surprisingly strong for such a slender body – flexed and the planes of his shoulders and collarbones stretched underneath his skin as he removed the shirt. He took his time folding it. Taunting her.

His smooth, pink nipples hardened in the cold. Her mouth was dry. She felt her skin start to flush and her stomach tighten. Her breath caught in her throat. She clenched her hands which ached to touch, to bruise that pale unmarked skin, to own it. It was hers. She wanted him to continue.

She needed him to stop.

She would see all of him. On her terms.

Sif opened her mouth to demand he cease his actions but he stopped after he placed his folded shirt on top of her dresser. So fastidious – her own clothes were scattered around the floor.

His breeches stayed on, though his hands traced over his hips and the tops of his thighs. Mocking. He walked around to the bed, body swaying smoothly with the rocking of the boat (he'd gotten his sea legs quick enough) and laid down on the bed like an offering. A virgin sacrifice of old. The gods of the sea would have no cause to scorn this sacrifice. His arms came up to stretch over his head, seemingly contrite and willing. Like a lamb.

There was a glint in his eyes as he asked her, "Do you normally go to bed so attired…_my lady_?"

Her hackles stirred up at the challenge. She began to remove her clothes, unmindful of her pace or where they fell. She normally slept unclothed but for modesty's sake – his own, nobility was so prudish about the body – she had been willing to amend her habits for the night. No matter.

His uncontrolled blush belayed his lack of indifference as more and more of her body was revealed. She was wearing no bodice underneath; her nipples hardened when they were free. She relished his scrutiny, the way his eyes traced from her throat down to her vulva, his pink tongue darting out to lick his lips.

Her knees slid over the rough fabric of her blanket as she went over to the bed, climbing up and over to straddle his hips. His adam's apple bobbed in his throat. Her sex was right over his own and there it was. That primal urge to grind down, to take him inside her. She leaned over him, nipple brushing against his mouth, skin breaking out into goose bumps.

The clink of the shackle locking around his left wrist echoed in the silent chamber. His warm breath fanned across her breast. She worked the chain of the shackles around a bedpost, tightening it, and then closed it around his right wrist. He would be going nowhere tonight.

She moved back, mindful of the moan that escaped him, and reached over the side of the bed where it pressed against the wall. Carefully, she pulled out the knife he had hidden there.

_Nice try_, her eyes said to him as she threw it to the other end of the room.

_Next time,_ his gaze seemed to answer her.

She laid down next to him but kept her legs locked around his, pinning him to the bed. He was stiff next to her, his breathing harsh and aroused. She nuzzled her face into the side of his neck, breathing his scent in. Like ink and wood and blood still staining him.

"Go to sleep Loki," she ordered, tightening her arms about his waist, "You have a very long day ahead of you."


End file.
